"Just sit there, Ensign."
Chekov jumped up onto the bed where Dr McCoy had indicated with a swift spite of himself he had to admit that the sickbay had a pleasing antiseptic smell – a cleanliness that Chekov had not experienced in a long he looked deep inside himself he knew that there was something familiar about it. He felt as if memories were trying to creep up from the depths of his brain but, like a drowning man, were unable to break through to the surface. He needed more courage, he decided, and there was only one thing Shonen soldiers took to help them. While the doctor was looking at something on a computer screen, Chekov took the opportunity to surreptitiously pull out a small piece of tassa from his jacket pocket. He broke a piece off and placed the narcotic in his mouth. The tassa felt cool on his tongue and a relaxing warmth began to suffuse its way through him. The rustling package caught McCoy's attention. He turned round to see Chekov begin to chew on something with a languid droop of his jaw. Chekov straightened up and looked back at him. McCoy could see the provocation in the Russian's eyes.
"What's that?" McCoy asked with forced politeness.
"Tassa," replied Chekov, taking another piece out of the small crumpled packet and rolling it between his fingers. He locked eyes with the doctor – an insolent half smile played at his lips.
McCoy held up his hand, refusing to be intimidated.
"Can I have a look at it?"
"Why?"
"Because it might be harmful to you."
"It's not."
"Are you a doctor?"
Chekov's look turned to one of dangerous displeasure. He turned his head and dropped the paper into McCoy's outstretched hand. McCoy took it and walked calmly to a sampling machine, placing the tassa into its open compartment. He read through the results with pursed lips.
"As I suspected. A mild relaxant." He whisked the tassa out of the machine and placed it in a disposal tube, slamming the door shut with a slap of his hand."You need to stop taking this. It interferes with brain function with prolonged use".
Chekov gave him a malicious look but remained silent.
"Take off your jacket and shirt."
He was used to obeying orders. That was something he could do without thinking. Thinking would lead to confusion. He grudgingly unbuttoned the crumpled green jacket with his bloodstained fingers, suddenly feeling depressed at how dirty it and he were in comparison to the clean, pale blue sheet of the bed he laid it on. Dr McCoy turned round from setting up the instruments at the top of the bed and saw Chekov's shame at his clothes.
"Nurse!" he called out. "Could you bring Chekov's uniform and a disposal bag, please."
"Yes, doctor," a bright female voice called out from the room next door. A tall young woman with a wave of pale blonde hair and kind blue eyes appeared in the doorway with a small shiny bag.
"Hello, Ensign," she said as she walked in. As instructed earlier by Dr McCoy, she ignored the Russian's surly, suspicious eyes. "I haven't seen you in here for a while. Welcome back. I'm Nurse Chapel, in case you can't remember. Christine Chapel. "
Chekov dipped his head by way of a reluctant reply, watching her for any signs of falsehood, but saw none. Everyone knew him. Everybody recognised him, and yet he couldn't remember any of was frustrating and unsettling. He continued to pull the grey light undershirt over his head. As he did so he heard the nurse suck in her breath over her teeth as she placed his jacket in the bag.
"What has happened to you?" she asked quietly.
Chekov pulled the sleeves off his arms and gathered up the shirt in a ball before handing it to the nurse. He steeled himself before looking down at the depressing sight. The left side of his body was lacerated with fresh scar tissue. His whole body was covered in bruises and cuts.
"We were caught in an ambush. There was an explosion," he said, trying to sound nonchalant.
The whole day had been a nightmare. Attacked in a ravine, penned in between the rock face and the broiling river, it had been a miracle any of them had got out alive. Chekov had been pulled out of the burning wreckage of their transport and taken straight to the nearest field hospital. The work done on him had been minimal. He had been patched up and sent back to the lines to continue the fight within a couple of days.
Dr McCoy walked round to stand next to Christine. He shook his head.
"Well, I haven't seen a hatchet job like that in a while." He placed his hand on the young man's shoulder and felt him flinch. "But don't worry. We'll get you cleaned up and we'll soon have you back to your baby-smooth 's nothing we can't fix. Lie back and let me do the work. Nurse, can you fetch the plasti-skin kit please."
Christine retreated out of the room, as Dr McCoy ran a sensor over his patient. Its quiet high-pitched warble indicated that data was being gathered and relayed. Chekov lay on his back and stared at the white ceiling, swallowing hard. He listened to the sound of his heartbeat over one of the monitors. It was beating fast, he realised. He didn't want them to know he was afraid. McCoy, however, had already sensed his tension.
"I suppose you don't remember, but you end up in my sickbay quite a lot," he said jovially by way of breaking the silence.
Chekov scratched his nose, unable to think of a response. He could feel a battle going on inside his head. All reason told him that there was something sinister about this ship. Nothing in his memories and experiences on Avior pointed to him ever being a member of its crew. He was a soldier for the Shonen army and his loyalties lay there and nowhere else. He had to get back and join the fight. And yet somewhere deep inside him was a feeling – nothing more –that everything about this ship was alright. Should he trust such contrasting feelings over evidence? And what evidence did he have? He had two weeks fighting a war and before that only hearsay and relentless nightmares.
"Oh yes. If there's something kicking off on board this ship then I usually find you at the centre of it." McCoy turned to the instruments at the head of the bed and continued: "Interspatial madness – you get it first. Ageing sickness – you're the only one that doesn't get it. Fights with Klingons, accidents, hockey injuries... trouble is attracted to you like a magnet, son. You keep me in a job..." He trailed off. Something in the data caught his attention.
"I don't remember," offered Chekov acerbically, turning his head round to see what the doctor was looking at.
"Like how you got three broken ribs and both arms broken?"
Chekov stared back up at the ceiling and shrugged, trying to seem unconcerned but fighting off a sudden hollow feeling. "Like I said, I was caught in an explosion."
"No. These injuries are over a month old. And they've been set professionally. If in a hurry," countered McCoy.
Chekov turned away angrily, hugging the pillow without really meaning to. "They told me I came from a Strite prison. I have dreams... nightmares... they're stupid, nothing. If the Stritans broke my arms in prison, it wouldn't surprise me. That's not the worst that they do."
"From what I've seen of Stritan and Shonen medical technology, this is not in their league," muttered McCoy, downloading the information to a datapad. "I think I'll get Spock to check these over."
A deep shudder suddenly overcame Chekov. "I'm cold. Can't I have a shirt?"
"We're going to patch you up first. Here's a blanket."
Chekov took the sheet in silence, barely able to glance up as Nurse Chapel came back into the room with her repair kit. Something inside him was afraid that if he did he would find something familiar to latch on to and his whole life and certainties about the war would come crashing down.
McCoy looked down at the young man. He could see he was avoiding his eyes. When he did look into them they looked malevolent. Who had put so much hatred into him, he wondered? The features were the same – the same straight nose and dark brown eyes under long eyelashes. Yet the scowl that was fixed on his forehead was more than serious – it was deeply troubled.
Chekov opened his eyes and found the craggy face of Dr McCoy looming into view over him.
"I'm going to take a blood sample, Ensign. You may feel a tingling sensation, but it won't hurt."
"That's what you always say," replied Chekov automatically. Where did that come from? He hadn't meant to say it. It had just fallen out without him realising. Like drawing the stars in the dry earth on Shonen. He always seemed to do things that he couldn't explain.
Dr McCoy noticed it too and hesitated slightly, exchanging a glance with Chapel before he pressed the sampling instrument against Chekov's shoulder.
"That sounds more like the Ensign Chekov I know," he said encouragingly. "Try to relax. I'm going to run a series of full physiological tests. It may take a while. Nurse Chapel here is going to start your skin repair.
"Yes, Sir."
"Don't call me 'sir'. I only pull rank when I want to."
Chekov smiled slightly and shut his eyes. There might be a lot didn't know but he felt he might get to like this doctor. He was quirky and unconventional. He was starting to feel he could trust him. He continued to listen to his heartbeat as it steadied and slowed to an almost relaxed rate. The bed was comfortable. The skin repair procedure was warm and tingling. He could feel himself start to drift off.
"What did you just say?"
Chekov opened his eyes and found the doctor's intense blue eyes frowning down at him again. He sat up on his elbows. "Nothing. I didn't say anything. At least... I don't know. I must have started to fall asleep."
Chapel pushed him gently back down onto the bed. "I distinctly heard you say 'they've killed Russell'. Who's Russell?" she asked.
The same hollow feeling from before overcame him. "I don't know. I don't know who Russell is." He felt confused. He sat up fully. Again he could feel the drowning memories clutching at his consciousness.
"I'm sure she was one of the team that was sent with you..." said Chapel, throwing the doctor a quizzical look.
McCoy went over to a computer on a desk by the wall. "Computer, list the navigation and cartography team sent to Avior, stardate 556221".
"Working," intoned the computer. "Team Leader Lieutenant Doeblin, Dieter Franz, pilot and geographical cartography specialist. Ensign Chekov, Pavel Andreevitch, Chief Navigator. Ensign Russell, Keeta, cartographic data analyst." The faces of the team flashed up with their medical records.
"There," said McCoy, turning back to Chekov to gauge his reaction. "She was on your team. She went with you in the shuttle to Avior. What happened to her and Doeblin?"
Chekov shook his head. "I don't know," he said, starting to feel angry again.
"Who killed her?" McCoy bit out the words, hoping a change in tone might bring more information out of him.
"I don't know."
"You must know – you were there."
"I said I don't know," Chekov spat viciously. "Stop asking me. You're trying to confuse me."
He clutched at his head, forcing down the feelings and emotions that welled up at the name of Russell and Doeblin. Horror, revulsion, fear and desperation clawed at his throat. He pushed Chapel and her repair kit aside and threw himself off the bed, rounding on the doctor.
"Stop it. You're working for Strite. You're trying to get information out of me. It won't work. I'm not going to co-operate. I'd rather die. What are you trying to do to me here? Run tests? Extract information?" Blind anger pushed him to look for an escape route. He cast his eyes around quickly, looking for a weapon of some sorts. "Send me back to Shonen. Now!"
McCoy held up his hands. He could see what was going through the young man's mind. He could see him about to lunge forward for the laser scalpels on the table. He placed himself between Chekov and his bench of medical tools. He didn't want him to get his hands on the equipment. He would probably do more harm to himself than to his medical team.
"Ok, Ensign, calm down. I'm sure this must all seem very confusing to you, but you must trust us. The Nurse and I are here to help you. That's all. Let us do our job medically and the Captain will figure out what has happened to you. Please sit down."
Chekov searched their eyes again for signs of duplicity, but still could find none. He realised he was breathing hard. but what could he do? He was on a starship high above the planet. There was no way off. He was their prisoner. Perhaps the best thing to do, he reasoned, was to bide his time.
"What seems to be the problem, Bones?"
Chekov spun round to see the captain enter the room. The man had a calm authority about him that Chekov recognised in all the best military leaders on Avior. He felt the man's keen hazel eyes take in the room and assess the situation. He missed nothing.
"The Ensign was undergoing a full medical examination. There are some areas that are of concern to me," replied McCoy neutrally. "We were in the middle of a skin repair procedure, however, I think it's more important that he gets some rest now. He can stay here or he can go to his quarters. We can continue tomorrow."
Kirk nodded in silent understanding and stepped over to a communicator on the wall and thumbed it on. "Chief Bakary. Send up a security guard to escort Ensign Chekov back to his quarters."
"Aye, sir," a tinny voice came back.
"Here, put this on," said Chapel, handing Chekov a black undershirt. "It's from your quarters. It will fit."
Chekov glared and snatched it off her, pulling it ungratefully over his cold shoulders as the security guard walked in.
"Twenty four hour guard," Kirk murmured to the crewman as he escorted Chekov out of the room.
He turned to McCoy, frowning. "So, what do you think then?"
"I think that boy has had his brains scrambled by someone down on that planet but why they needed him to be that way – I have no idea. He bucks like a mule," McCoy said ruefully. "He's not got the calmest temper at the best of times. Now it's like a hair-trigger. Added to that he's got some strange injuries that have been repaired using molecular sequencing. That's technology that is way beyond anything they have on Avior at present. It just doesn't add up."
"Next steps?"
"I'll need to run a lot more tests before I can figure out how we can get him back to his normal self."
Kirk nodded. He needed his chief navigator back at his post as soon as possible but he knew from experience that mental recovery could be a painful and difficult process. He recalled Miramanee, the native girl whom he had married after he had had his memory accidentally wiped by a planetary defence system. For a while his whole life had changed. He rarely admitted, even to himself, how hard it had been to overcome his experiences there.
"Do what you can, Bones," he said gruffly. "As soon as you have any results, let me know. I need to go and brush up on Avior history." He moved to leave the room but turned round. "Fancy joining me later for a drink?"
McCoy's eyes lit up. "I think I will. Let me finish up here and hand over to M'Benga. I'll catch you up."
Kirk nodded and headed back out of sickbay. He had hoped that Chekov's return would have helped him to find out what had happened to the crew of the shuttle. Instead it had raised more questions and he found himself still no nearer to figuring out who had taken them or why.